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UNITED STATES OP'^ftttERICA, 



THANKSGIVING 



AND 



OTHER POEMS 



BY 



AGATHA. 



th^/yo /Jl^ju-^C J^OytATinyyuc- 



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NEW YORK 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
182 Fifth Avenue 

1880 



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Copyright 
1880 
By Miss Bessie Lawrence 0^ 



To THE DEAR COMPANION OF SO MANY HOURS OF HAPPY 
WORK AND BUSY LEISURE ; WHOSE ENCOURAGEMENT AND 
SYMPATHY INDUCED ME TO PLACE THIS LITTLE BOOK 
BEFORE THE PUBLIC ; IT IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY DEDI- 
CATED BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



CONTENTS 



I'AGE 

Tl\anksgiving I 

A Dream of Summer 14 

The Trailing Arbutus 16 

Cloud Pictures 18 

The Lace-maker 20 

My Piciure 24 

Origin of the Lilies of the Valley 27 

If 33 

Marguerite 35 

The Chapel in the Forest 37 

Longing 39 

My Secret 42 

Asleep 44 

A Perfect Day 47 

A Picture 49 

On the Death of a Pet Bird 51 



vi CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Only 53 

Memories 55 

Kate and 1 57 

Leaflets 59 

Love's Teaching 6i 

O Faithful Heart 63 

Etchings 65 

Leona 67 

A Retrospect , 69 

My King 71 

My Queen 73 

A Rainy Night 76 

My Heaven 79 

Dreaming 81 

To Bella 83 

The Kingfisher 87 

Granted 88 

To Madame Marie Rose 90 

Ashes 93 

The Robin Red-breast 96 

Ghosts 99 



THANKSGIVING, 



AND 



OTHER POEMS. 



THANKSGIVING. 

In a valley far from the noisy town, 

The old farm-house stands low and brown. 

Year by year has the summer sun 

And the winter storm its work well done, 

Till from door-stone broad to roof-tree high 
It seems a relic of days gone by. 

Patches of moss on the shingles grow, 
Last year's nests in the porch below; 

I 



THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Swallows build in the chimney wide ; 
Lilac bushes grow just outside ; 

Their clusters of purplish blossoms fair, 
Filling with perfume the soft spring air. 

Bearded grain, and tasseled corn, 

Wave in the breath of each summer morn ; 

While the ripened apples softly fall 
In autumn days by the orchard wall. 

Children's voices are heard no more 
Happy at play by the kitchen door. 

One by one they have grown, and gone. 
And the old folks now are left alone, 

With figures bent, and whitened hair. 
And wrinkled faces that once were fair : 

Eyes needing spectacles to see, 

And steps not spry as they used to be. 



THANKSGIVING. 

Bound by the ties that hold the heart 
Of the old brown house they seem a part. 
* * * * * * * 

Knitting in hand in her rocking-chair, 
"Mother" muses on days that were. 

Every click of the shining steel, 

As she sets the seam, or binds the heel, 

Takes up the stitches thick and fast, 
In the golden web of the days long past. 

She sees in the orchard a tiny mound. 
Level now with the earth around : 

Her one wee daughter, sweet and fair, 
She laid to rest under daisies there ; 

Fifty years ! but it seems a day — 
Living, she too had been old and gray. 

Her memory lives, as in those young days, 
*'The baby " with pretty, winsome ways. 



THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 



A tear-drop gathers and dims her sight, 
And falls unseen on the needles bright. 



" P'ather " dozes o'er paper or book, 
Smoking his pipe in the chimney nook ; 

With a frequent glance at the swaying chair, 
To be sure that mother is resting there. 

Reading the news by his own fireside, 

He scarcely dreams that the world's so wide. 

He has sent his sons to do their part 
In the money-getting busy mart : 

Four stalwart men, and he thinks with pride 
There were no such boys in the country side. 

He lives in them again to-day, 

Since his youth and strength have passed away. 



THANKSGIVING. 

Oh, the golden heart-warming autumn days ! 
The air is full of a dreamy haze : 

So quiet the noisy brooklets seem, 
We hear their dashing as in a dream. 

The sloping hill-sides, and mountains grand, 
In a blaze of glory gorgeous stand, 

Red, and yellow, and golden brown, 
A mass of color fluttering down : 

Hues that an artist ne'er can trace — 
Nature's own for October days. 

Load by load the fragrant hay 

Has been gathered in and stowed away ; 

Wheat, rye, oats, a goodly store, 

Bundled and thrashed on the broad barn floor 

Big golden pumpkins piled up high 

For the winter's feed, and the luscious pie ; 



6 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Bins in the cellar, filled with care, 
Spitzenberg, greening, and russet rare ; 

New sweet cider sipped through a straw — 
Nectar fit for the gods to draw. 



There's a dream of snow in the frosty air ; 
The skies are gray, and the fields are bare ; 

The whistling wind, as it creeps around, 
Has a sort of sorrowful sighing sound. 

Boughs of green, that have filled up high 
The fireplace in summer days gone by, 

Are cast aside ; and morn and night. 
The hearth-fire blazes warm and bright. 

There's bustle and stir at the old home farm 
Some potent spell works its magic charm. 

From cellar to garret a sense of cheer 
Pervades the home-like atmosphere. 



THANKSGIVING. 7 

The very smoke curls in joyous rings, 
And leaps to its airy wanderings. 

Savory odors float from afar, 
When the oven door is left ajar ; 

And the cupboard shelves are loaded down 
With flaky pies of a golden brown. 

The fire burns bright in the ** keeping-room." 
Chambers above are all aboom 

With ''feathered star," and "rising sun," 

** Job's trouble," ''diamond," and "herring-bone." 

Works of art, tho' they be less fair 
Than picture fine, or sculpture rare. 

In the front porch oft does " mother" stand, 
Shading her eyes with her withered hand ; 

Anxiously watching the lowering sky, 
Where sullen clouds scud swiftly by ; 



8 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Shutting the door, and saying low, 

*' I'm afraid we're bound to have some snow." 

" Father " comes in from out of doors — 

He's ' ' done the milkin'/' and ' ' seen to the chores ; " 

He rubs his hands at the blaze so bright — 
" I'm afeard it'll be a teejus night ; 

"But the cattle are housed, and the comin' storm 
Will find all tidy, and snug, and warm. 

' ' I sort o' hope we won't have snow ; 
It don't hardly seem as it could be so — 

"That to-morrow Thanksgivin' Day will come. 
And all the children are comin' home." 

Yes ! back once more to the old fireside — 
Isaiah the eldest — his father s pride, 

A middle-aged man with grayish hair. 
And a face that shows some lines of care. 



THA NKSGI VING. 

A banker — rich — they always stand 
A little in awe of his wife so grand : 

She isn't used to their country way, 
And simple manners of every day. 

Stephen too, with his gentle bride — 
Plis parish is in the country side. 

'Twas a happy day when his mother heard 
His preaching of the Holy Word 

From the old church pulpit perched so high — 
His boyish wonder in days gone by. 

Tho' the others are loved, and ne'er forgot, 
In her heart he has always the warmest spot. 

Captain William, their sailor boy — 
How he used to shout his " Ship ahoy ! " 

In his dreams, and wake them all from sleep — 
His home is now on the restless deep ; 



10 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

But his ship is in ; he'll anchor lay, 
To keep with them Thanksgiving Day. 

And noisy Robert, full of glee. 
As a college boy will ever be : 

The youngsters think it a lucky day 
When "Uncle Bob" will lead their play. 

They're sure to have the best of fun, — 
Mother hopes they're coming, every one. 

Such bunches of dill and caraway, 
Such huge seed cookies find their way 

To little hands from her pockets deep, 
Are secrets grandma alone can keep. 

On the earth's broad bosom, bare and brown. 
The snow falls softly, lightly down ; 

Tossed by the wind, in many a whirl 
The feathery flakelets creep and curl ; 



THANKSGIVING. \ \ 

Drape the boughs of the forest pine 
In many a graceful pendulous line, 

And seem in their purity to cling 
Like a benison to everything. 

But if all without is bleak and drear, 
Within is comfort and happy cheer. 

The huge fire logs in the chimney wide 
Crackle and blaze as in gleeful pride. 

Spread for the feast the table stands, 
The work of cunning and skillful hands. 

Ye lovers of ceramics draw near ; 
A tempting treasure waits you here. 

Faience, Wedgwood, and Dresden fine, 
Lowestoft, Canton, may all combine. 

No such gems 'mong them all I see, 
As in "mother's" best set of mulberry. 



2 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Only on state occasions rare 

Is ever displayed this service fair : 

It was '* father's " gift on her wedding-day — 
Not a piece broken or given away. 

She looks with pride on the purplish bands, 
Wipes a speck of dust with her wrinkled hands, 

And hopes that *' Isaiah's wife will see 
Her table's as nice as need to be." 

**** * * * * * 

Who shall picture the tempting array 

Of dainties that graced the board that day ? 

Who can forget the frolic and fun 
That followed when the meal was done ? 

Games for the youngsters of maddest glee, 
Uncle Bob leading the revelry ; 

While the old folks talked in the fire-light's glow 
Of other Thanksgivings they used to know. 



THANKSGIVING. 

All at home ! not a single one 
From the happy circle lost or gone. 

When another year shall bring this day, 
Father and mother, passed away, 

Their life-work done, keep hand in hand 
Their harvest home in a better land. 

But the children visit the well-known spot- 
The old brown house is not quite forgot. 

And children's children hear them tell 
Of the old home days they loved so well. 

Over all the land in East and West, 
All that is purest, noblest, best. 

Throbs in the hearts that warmly glow 
With thoughts of Thanksgivings long ago : 

And memory's magnet links the chain 
That draws each wanderer home again. 



13 



THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 



A DREAM OF SUMMER. 

Oh, the yellow, yellow buttercups ! 

How the meadows are studded over — 
Flecks of gold 'mid the crimson and white, 

Satin leaves 'mid the blossoming clover : 
Softly blue is the summer sky. 

All the air is heavy with sweetness, 
And the restless heart beats satisfied 

Hushed with a sense of life's completeness. 

Listen how merrily wavelets sing ! 

Over the white stones how the brook dashes ! 
Graceful willows bend over the bank, 

Kiss the water in softest plashes ; 
Cool little nooks where the shadows play, 

Under the dancing leaves reclining ; 
A slumberous murmur in all the air — 

The saddest heart must cease repining. 



A DREAM OF SUMMER. 15 

In the hazy distance the mountains blue — 

Bluer cloudlets their tops caressing, 
Tenderly folding their rugged peaks, 

Like a life folded in love's blessing. 
Threads of silver adown the green 

Mark where the cascades fall and glisten, 
Thundering down through the mountain gorge, 

When only the quiet moon may listen. 

Pink and white petals that fall in showers 

Wealth of velvety apple blooming. 
Dashing the green with soft flecks of white, 

Filling the air with rich perfuming : 
Grasshopper's chirping, and cricket's song, 

Lazily welcome each new-comer ; 
Heaven above us, and beauty around. 

Speaking peace in a dream of summer. 



;6 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE TRAILING ARBUTUS. 

My darling, beautiful blossoms ! 

I know just where they grow — 
In a little spot on the hill-side 

Where the sun-rays melt the snow. 

The glossy leaves half hide them, 
And the snows around them cling ; 

They stand at the door of winter 
To welcome in the spring. 

So modest in their growing, 

So fragrant and so fair, 
As I pluck the tiny blossoms, 

They perfume all the air. 

To my sad heart tired with waiting 
They speak like the voice of song, 

Like the trembling prayer that rises 
The cool church aisles among. 



THE TRAILING ARBUTUS. 

But most of all I love them, 

And my heart with longing fills, 

When I think how in other spring-times 
They grew on my native hills. 

I know each spot in the forest, 
Each sunny glade and nook, 

Where in spring-iime nature opened 
And showed us her wondrous book. 

With its green and lovely border 
Of ground and prince's pine, 

And each page traced with the graceful 
And delicate spiral vine. 

Set in the midst like a picture, 

My tiny blossoming gems, 
More precious than the rarest 

In monarch's diadems. 

Tho' my fingers cannot gather 
My gems 'neath an April sky, 

My heart can always hold them ;• 
They can never fade or die. 



1 8 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER F0EM6. 



CLOUD PICTURES. 

Not traced by human fingers, 
Nor hung in the halls of art, 

Are the paintings, rare and olden. 
Which satisfy the heart. 

But when the golden sunset 
Gleams with its mellow rays. 

Kind angels draw the curtains 
Which hide them from our gaze. 

Shadowy forms of loved ones 
Stand where the cloud rifts part ; 

Eyes that we used to worship 
Speak to the aching heart. 

Oh, lips of crimson sweetness ! 

Oh, cheeks like the lily fair ! 
Oh, form of matchless beauty ! 

Oh, masses of waving hair ! 



CLOUD PICTURES. 

My heart grows wild with longing 
As I lost in wonder gaze, 

While memory brings before me 
The joys of other days. 

The darkness falleth, falleth, 
From the pinions of the night, 

Hiding the sweet cloud pictures 
From my eager, thirsty sight ; 

But in my soul their beauty 
Shall never more decay, 

And from my life their sweetness 
Shall never pass away. 



20 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE LACE-MAKER. 

In and out, and around about, 

Over the bobbins the white threads flew ; 
Loop by loop the delicate mesh. 

Leaf by leaf the tracery grew. 

Dark and dreary the dismal room : 
Scarcely a glimpse of the sunny sky, 

Hardly a sound from the street below 
Reached her ears where she sat so high. 

Her hair in the sun was golden brown. 

In the shade a glossy chestnut red, 
And it lay a mass of wavy light 

Coiled round the small and classic head. 

Tiny hands and form petite, 

Coarse stuff gown such as peasants wear — 
A queen could not with a sweeter grace 

Have sat in the straight and high-backed chair. 



THE LACE-MAKER. : 

Still as she wove the pattern grew — 

Feathery ferns and bracken leaves, 
Water-lilies with trailing stems, 

Nodding grasses, and wheaten sheaves. 

Still she wove, while her brown eyes filled 
With tears, as "her free thoughts sped away 

To mossy banks in shady woods. 

Where her childish feet were wont to stray ; 

To ponds where the water-lilies grew. 

By the gray old mill where she used to roam ; 

And fields of nodding and waving grain, 

Where the reapers chanted their harvest home. 

Still she wove, and the rare design 
Was a wreath of roses wet with dew, 

And the skillful fingers deftly wrought, 
While thread by thread the petals grew. 

But the tears fell fast, and she sobbed aloud. 

For as she wrought, the roses fair 
Were such as a loving hand had placed 

In days of old on her shining hair. 



22 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

His trembling fingers scarce could hold 
The fragrant spray with its pearly dew. 

Was it the echo of words he said ? 
" Darling, I'll be tender and true." 

Did the grave yawn wide its black abyss ? 

Was it the cold world came between ? 
Or, from the dim and shadowy past. 

Is it the fragment of a dream ? 

Poor tired heart, that has borne so well 
Its burden of grief, and fear, and wrong ! 

Eyes that have wept such bitter tears ! 
Tiny hands that have toiled so long ! 

The task is done — the roses fair 

And feathery leaves she downward casts, 

Blend in a mass confused and wild — 
In sleep she forgets the sorrowful past. 

In her dreams she murmurs soft and low 
The story that's old, yet ever new ; 

A step comes bounding up the stair — 
" Darling, I'll be tender and true." 



THE LACE-MAKER, 23 

The brown eyes open in sweet surprise, 
Scarce she credits the marvelous tale ; 

But the roses fair and the lilies white 
Lie soft and pure on her bridal veil. 



24 



THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 



MY PICTURE. 

In a sunny smiling valley 
Where the river, singing ever, 
In a joyous measure hastens on its pathway to the 
sea, 

There's a picture, rare and olden. 
That in all its beauty golden 
Comes in hours of doubt and sorrow like a benison 
to me. 

By the swiftly-flowing river. 
Where the sunbeams leap and quiver. 
Stands an aged oak outspreading all its branches far 
and wide ; 

And about its roots unseemly 
Softest mosses growing greenly, 
Spreading in their emerald beauty, close down to the 
water's side. 



AIY PICTURE. 25 

Daisies yellow, nodding clover, 
Dot the meadow grasses over, 
Lilies blooming in the sunshine flecked with spots of 
crimson red ; 

And, uprising from the meadow, 
Bright in sunlight, dark in shadow. 
Orchards waving cool and shady, and the blue sky 
overhead. 

Oh, the mountains, grand and hoary ! 
Never ancient song or story, 
With its most romantic legends, so my deepest being 
thrills, 

As the strong and rugged beauty, 
Like th' unswerving path of duty. 
Grand, and glorious, and solemn, of my own loved 
native hills. 

On the mossy bank reclining, 
Through the branches intertwining, 
I can catch the shining glimmer of the ripples as they 
play; 



26 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

And can watch the green trees waving, 
And the fleecy cloudlets laving 
In their light the mountain summits where the dark- 
ling shadows stray. 

Oh ! had I an artist's finger, 
With what happiness I'd linger, 
Over every light and shade that of my picture forms a 
part ; 

But I carry it unbroken, 
Nature's own eternal token 
Of her sympathy and kindness, deeply painted on my 
heart. 



ORIGIN OF THE LILIES OF THE VALLEY. 



27 



ORIGIN OF THE LILIES OF THE VALLEY. 

Back from the gleaming Dover sands, 

Where the sunbeam scorches the shingly strands ; 

Back from the softly-lapping reach 

Of the tide, as it crawls to the shelving beach ; 

Back from the sullen, angry roar 

Of the white-capped waves that beat the shore ; 

Shut in by the hills that tower so high 

On every side 'twixt earth and sky, 

A valley nestles, hid like a bird 

In its leafy nest, or a loving word 

Deep in a heart by sorrow broken, 

Cherished with tears, as a precious token, 

That tho' the world may its grief forget. 

Kindness in some soul lingers yet. 

The grassy meadow is starred with flowers 
That open and close to mark the hours ; 



28 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

In the sun rays bright the painted gems 
Sparkle Hke myriad diadems ; 
Waving branches above the brook 
Bending, as in a mirror look, 
Nodding quietly to the fair 
And graceful image reflected there. 
Surely was never so sweet a spot, 
Far from the world, by the world forgot. 

But if the valley by day seem bright, 
How wondrous is it by pale moonlight ! 
A thousand times rarer its beauties seem 
Glistening under that silvery sheen. 
The waters tinkle like silver bells — 
Low whispers sigh from the distant dells — 
There are spells and charms on every hand ; 
'Tis a spot for elves — a fairy land. 

Long years ago, on a moonlit night. 
When the valley shone with a radiance bright 
As the rays that shot from the silver veil 
Of the wondrous prophet of Eastern tale ; 



ORIGIN OF THE LILIES OF THE VALLEY. 29 

While the wind harp's music was low and sweet, 
The moments passing on noiseless feet, 
Each marked by the opening of some rare flower, 
The cereus bloomed — 'twas the midnight hour. 
Straightway the air seemed full of sound 
From every nook in the hills around, 
From every grotto and bosky dell. 
From secret niche in blossoming bell ; 
With step so light, not a single blade 
Bent to show where a foot had strayed ; 
Nor a drop of dew that had spukled bright 
Was brushed by gossamer garments light ; 
With melody not of earth, like the strains 
That echo in sleep over dreamland's plains ; 
Bathed in a strange and shimmering light, 
The fairy folk came to their festal night. 

Tiny spri'es like a thistle bloom — 
Drapery light as a waving plume — 
Elfin forms like the feathery down 
Of the dandelion's seedling crown : 



30 



THANKSGIVING. AND OTHER POEMS. 



Full many a stately minuet 

They must walk ere the moon shall set : 

Full many a waltz of maddest glee, 

Full many a galop de revelrie. 

Fairy fingers close entwined, 

They float like a breath of summer wind : 

And hark ! on the air rings a chorus gay — 

'Tis the drinking song of the elves at play. 

Elf and sprite 

From near and far 
Dancing, singing, 

'Neath moon and star ; 
Fill to the brim 

Your goblets bright ; 
Drink to the joy 

Of our festal night. 
Ha! Ha! 

We must away. 
Dance, dance, 

Till the break of day. 



ORIGIN OF THE LILIES OF THE VALLEY. 31 

Never a care 

That mortals know 
Clouds our path 

As we singing go. 
Fairy folk 

Are always free ; 
Fill up — drink 

To our revelry. 
Ha! Ha! 

We must away. 
Dance, dance, 

Till the break of day. 



In the moon's soft rays their goblets gleamed, 
Each cup like a line of silver seemed ; 
They drained them deep, then tossed them high, 
As to catch the glow from the midnight sky ; 
Caught them again ere they reached the ground. 
And hung them trembling on boughs around. 
Then again they danced, and again they sang, 
And again the silver goblets rang ; 



32 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Surely never were fairy folk in plight 
More madly gay than are these to-night. 

But see ! In the east one rosy gleam ; 

It rests on hill and vale and stream. 

A crimson glow over all is cast : 

The morning breaks — the night is past. 

There's a sound like a coming storm wind's moan, 

Or a rush of wings — and the elves are gone. 

Each leaf and flower, each drop of dew, 

Sparkled with morning beauty new. 

Nothing remained of the scene so gay 

To tell that the elves had been at play. 

Yet stay ! still trembling the goblets hung, 

As from fairy fingers lightly flung ; 

In their eager haste to leave the spot 

The tiny goblets were quite forgot. 

A little child came by that day. 
Roaming wild in his restless play. 
He saw the goblets trembling stand, 
And touched them soft with his tiny hand. 
" O pretty flowers ! what can they be ? 
They're lilies of the vale," said he. 



IF. 



IF. 



33 



If I could paint you a picture, 

Such as in dreams I see, 
Not one of the great art teachers 

Could ever compete with me. 

I'd steal the gold from the sunset, 
The azure from heaven's own blue, 

And the roseate tints from the dawning, 
When the morn peeps blushing through 

And looking out from the canvas, 

A pair of blue-gray eyes 
Should answer your questioning glances 

With an eager, sweet surprise. 

A low, broad, childish forehead, 

The hair brushed smoothly down — 

A hint of gold in the sunlight. 
In the shade a chestnut brown. 



34 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

A shy mouth, arching and drooping, 

So sensitive to a word ; 
That laughs in careless gladness, 

Or trembles when tears are stirred. 

I have painted a word picture — 

The portrait of a face 
Fair with all outward seeming, 

Pure with all inward grace. 

And yet this little child face, 

Simple as it may seem, 
Is rare with a soulful beauty, 

That comes but in a dream. 



MARGUERITE. 



MARGUERITE. 



35 



*' He loves me." Pretty floweret, 

With petals soft and white, 
Say, were you sleeping when he came 

Across the fields last night ? 

We were walking in the gloaming ; 

He left me at the bars ; 
Did you hear the words he whispered 

Under the quiet stars .? 

"He loves me not." Oh daisy. 

You would not cruel be ; 
There was no other maiden 

To bear him company. 

You grew beside the footpath ; 

He brushed you passing by ; 
You must have heard what name he breathed 

In that unconscious sierh. 



36 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

*' He loves me." Snowy blossom, 

I knew you'd not deceive : 
A voice so pure and charming 

Speaks what one must believe. 

But men are so deceitful, 

One must not trust, they say ; 

But you'd trust, daisy, would you not. 
His words of yesterday .? 

" He loves me not." Sweet daisy. 
Did you look up in his eyes, 

And were their glances false or true. 
Under the quiet skies } 

Ah me ! Was ever maiden 

In such uncertain plight } 
How shall I, — Hush ! he's coming ! 

What will he say to-night } 



IHE CHAPEL IN THE FOREST. 



THE CHAPEL IN THE FOREST. 

All wreathed in leafy greenness 
The chapel door stands wide, 

Its strong supporting columns 
The oaks that grow beside. 

No foot-fall sounds within it 
On marble porch or aisle ; 

Up from its floor of mosses 
Sweet blue-eyed violets smile. 

Its stained windows shimmer 
Rare as the gift of kings, 

When through the leafy branches 
Fair night the moonlight brings. 

The winds, its mighty organ. 

Now murmuring sweet and low ; 

Now sweeping all before them, 
As life's strong passions go. 



37 



38 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

The birds, its sweet choir voices, 
They chant a matin song ; 

Or warble vesper chorals 

When evening shades grow long. 

No white-robed priest stands waiting 
With book and bell to intone : 

Low in the forest chapel 
I kneel to God alone. 

My lips no words can utter, 
But my eyes are full of tears. 

And my heart aches with its burden, 
Of doubts, and hopes, and fears. 

So, trusting and believing. 

What peace shall crown my day. 

When in God's forest chapel, 
I kneel to weep and pray. 



LONGING. 39 



LONGING. 

Oh stately ship ! slow sailing from the bay, 
Move slowly on thy path — one moment wait, 

And take a message from my longing soul, 
Ere yet you pass beyond the Golden Gate. 

So smooth the ripples play around your prow. 
So clearly blue the smiling sky above, 

So soft the winds that gently fan my brow, 
Thou'lt bear it safeh to the land I lo.e. 

'Tis this : I miss the grandeur of its hills, 

Its sunny vales, and brooklets mad with glee. 

Its long bright days full of all calm delights. 
And nights replete with beauty's harmony. 

I miss its mighty rivers' rush and flow. 
Its foaming torrents, sparkling waterfalls ; 

And, rising in their solemn majesty. 
Imperious and grand, its granite walls. 



40 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

I miss the flowers that grew in every nook, 
Tho' others may be thought by far more fair ; 

The yellow jewels nodding by the brook 
To me are dearer than these blossoms rare. 

Oh white-winged ship ! God speed thee on thy 
way ! 
Grant thee fair breezes, calm the treacherous 
main ; 
So longingly my anxious heart will wait, 
My sad eyes watch thy coming once again. 

Bring me a breath from off my native hills, 
Fill thy sails full of my free mountain air. 

Catch the rare tints of Eastern sunset skies. 
Paint on thy canvas scenes so bright and fair. 

Come to me laden with the breath of flowers 

That used to fill my tiny baby hands ; 
Bring me a branch from the old maple tree 

Beneath whose shade the little cottasre stands. 



LONGING. 



41 



Kind angels guard thee on thy trackless way, 
And keep me safe, who for thy coming wait, 

Till I shall see thy swift sail once again 

Pass, homeward bound, within the Golden Gate. 



42 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 



MY SECRET. 

In the deep red heart of a queenly rose 
I breathed my secret with many a sigh; 

The velvet petals with dewdrops shone, 
But they only nodded royally. 

Then I whispered low to a zephyr light, 
" I love my love, but she loves not me ; " 

But the balmy breeze with odors sweet 
Swept softly onward to reach the sea. 

I cried to a bird on a waving bough, 

"Know you my love? " In a trilling tone 

He chirped and chittered, "I seek my mate," 
And left me once more sadly alone. 

Then I caught the strain of a glorious song, 
And I gave my secret to music's sway ; 

But the strain grew sad, and the measure wild, 
And died in the twilight dim away. 



MY SECRET. 



43 



It rose on the wings of my evening prayer, 
As I lowly knelt in the sunset's glow. 

Did the angels whisper the answer back ? 
*'0h, fearful heart, go tell her so." 

Then I kissed it down on her ripe red lips, 
I looked in the depths of her smiling eyes, 

And I clasped her close with a strong true arm. 
While my glad heart laughed in its sweet surprise. 

Oh, rose and bird ! Oh, breeze and song ! 

I care no more that ye scornful be ; 
My soul is full of all calm content, 

I love my love, and my love loves me. 



44 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 



ASLEEP. 

Hush ! winds that oft so coldly, rudely blow, 
Breathe soft as zephyrs o'er a summer lake ; 

Come from the south with sighing sweet and low ; 
My heart's asleep — I tremble lest it wake. 

Ye birds that carol loud your joyous song, 
Twitter it low to-day among the leaves ; 

And whet not once your brightly gleaming scythes. 
Ye sturdy reapers of the golden sheaves. 

Oh, laughing brooklet ! linger not I pray ; 

My heart stirs strangely in its restless sleep ; 
But hasten on thy mad tumultuous way — 

If thou should'st waken it, it would but weep. 

I could not bear that it should moan and sigh. 
And beat with longings all unsatisfied ; 

I could not bear that it should tell me oft, 
" Life is so dark, I would that I had died." 



ASLEEP. 45 

So I have lulled it with a song to rest — 

Have satisfied it with a promise sweet, 
That when it waken, if it will but sleep, 

It shall find life more noble and complete. 

Come, gentle flow'rets, perfume all the air — 

Fragrant hepatica, and gentian blue, 
Anemone, and snowy lily rare, 

And sweet wild roses sparkling o'er with dew ; 

That so its slumber may be long and deep — 
If thou a fairy-land of sleep canst make, 

Filled with all beauty both of sound and sight. 
And brightest dreams, it will not care to wake. 

It could but prove my promise all untrue ; 

It must not waken till, beyond the skies, 
We meet the purer and the truer life 

In store, when the eternal morn shall rise. 

Then only can we look for faith and trust, 

Friendship sincere, and love that's true and strong. 

Here we can only weep, and hope, and pray. 

When sorrow makes the days seem dark and long. 



46 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

So wait I till these weary days are o'er, 
And the fair night, in all its glorious dress, 

Precedes the dawning of that brighter morn, 
When my tired heart may wake to happiness. 



A PERFECT DA V. 



A PERFECT DAY. 



47 



The fleecy clouds lie soft against the blue, 
As if the angels o'er the sapphire walls 
Lean silent, while beneath their folded wings 

There comes a glint of glory gleaming through. 

The balmy air, laden with odors sweet, 
Blows cool and freshening from the distant hills, 
While the soft murmur of the rustling leaves 

Drops lightly, like the sound of dancing feet. 

The mountain brook comes dashing down the glen, 
While graceful ferns and golden jewels bright 
Mark where amid the silence on it flows. 

Far from the crowded haunts of busy men. 

From out the orchards spread on either side 
The rosy fruit peeps through the glossy leaves. 
And the blue smoke curls gracefully aloft, 

Where the old farm-house door stands open wide. 



48 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

The sheaves are stacked on either side the way, 
The grain, well ripened, waiting to be stored, 
While all the meadows, flecked with blossoms bright, 

Are fragrant with the scent of new-mown hay. 

God's benison, descending from above. 
Rests on the earth, and peace fills all the air ; 
And o'er my heart the gentle influence steals, 

The chrism of a pure and perfect love. 

A love that knows no change — that feels no fear — 
That looks beyond earth's clouded, dreary night 
To heavenly days, when God's eternal smile 

Shall make each perfect morning bright and clear. 



A PICTURE. 



A PICTURE. 

She stood below me where the vines 
Shadowed the face so wondrous fair ; 

The glancing sunbeam left a ray 
Of glory on her golden hair. 

Her sweet brown eyes looked up to mine 
With all a child's simplicity ; 

Yet in their depths I fain had read 
More than a passing thought of me. 

The tiny hands and soft white arms 
Closely the trellis work entwine : 

The rosy lips hold richer feast 

Than amber clusters from the vine. 

I stooped and whispered, soft and low, 
So sacred seemed the words to me, 

** Kiss me ! " I shook with sudden fear, 
And then I waited, trustfully. 
4 



49 



50 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Quick, like the glow of early morn, 

The blushes spread o'er cheek and brow 

She bends that fair and graceful head — 
Those brownest eyes are dewy now. 

And then she raised to mine the lips 
That should be mine forever more ; 

And all the earth, and air, and sky, 
Was glorious as ne'er before. 

Through all my life, in good or ill, 
Till hushed in silence of the grave. 

My lips with glad delight will feel 
That first warm kiss my darling gave. 



ON THE DEA TH OF A PET BIRD. 5 i 



ON THE DEATH OF A PET BIRD. 

The song is hushed, and the singer 

Silent forevermore ; 
The stiUness steals upon you, 

As you near the well-known door. 

The gilded cage in the window 
Swings high in the morning air ; 

But the tiny home is empty — 
There is no birdling there. 

No yellow-throated birdling, 
Whose life was a gush of song, 

That pealed like joy-bells ringing 
The busy days along. 

Scarce sadder would our hearts be. 

Scarce heavier with care, 
Were there an empty cradle, 

Or a tiny vacant chair. 



52 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

What wonder if the hot tears 

Rise fast and overflow, 
When we think the song was ended 

By a sudden cruel blow. 

Is there no heaven for birdlings ? 

No land of blooming flowers, 
Where they may sing forever. 

Through happy golden hours ? 

Surely their lives and sorrows 

Are to the Father known, 
Without whom not one sparrow 

Falls to the ground alone. 

So fair and pure our birdlings, 

I think it well may be 
The strain so rudely broken 

Shall reach eternity. 



ONLY. 53 



ONLY. 



Only a memory ! Yes, 'tis true — 

A memory of a morning fair, 
When spring's sweet sunshine kissed the earth, 

And violets perfumed all the air. 

Only a memory 1 One low word, 

Earth, air, and sky, .new brightness wore ; 

And lo ! upon my girlish hand 
A ring I ne'er had worn before. 

Only a memory ! You may smile ; 

You think the tale is old, I ween ; 
But 'twas the spring of life and love. 

And I ? Why I was just sixteen. 

Only a memory ! Even now 

I feel the hot blood flush my cheek 

As I recall those whispered words, 

That only dreams henceforth may speak. 



54 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Only a memory ! Yet I sigh 

When others laugh to greet the spring ; 
And you have wondered why I weep 

To hear the earHest robin sing. 

Only a memory ! Life is full 

Of earnest deeds, not vain regrets ; 

Yet even now my soul grows faint 
At breath of woodland violets. 

Some time, if I be strong and true, 
Will eager tones say low to me, 

" This is the glad fruition, love ; 
We have no need of memorv. " 



MEMORIES. 5 5 



MEMORIES. 



Thank God for pleasant memories ; 

Through the dim mist of tears 
The saddened eyes behold again 

The joys of vanished years. 

The flowers we cherished tenderly 

With fondest care are dead ; 
But o'er the paths of memory 

Their fragrance sweet is shed. 

The songs we loved are ended now, 
The lips that sung them dumb ; 

But oh 1 how often to the soul 
Their chiming echoes come. 

The friends we knew, but meet no more ; 

Ah me ! a minor tone 
Marks the sad rhythm of those lives 

That battle fate alone, . 



^6 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

How sad, without a gleam of hope, 

If we could not look back, 
And live again the days that lie 

So bright in memory's track. 

But hope makes glad the darkest hour, 

And by her light we see 
The fairer days that are to come. 

The joys that yet shall be. 

We linger fondly o'er the past, 
Each happy time and scene ; 

Then looking forward, we forget 
The dreariness between. 



KATE AND L 



57 



KATE AND I. 

'TwAS 'neath the blossoming apple-tree, 

In the merry month of May ; 
A warm wind blew from the southern land, 
And scattered the leaves away. 
The snowy petals rose, 
Far in the quiet sky, 
While we stood and watched their silent flight, 
Kate and I. 

The fair round moon as it rose that night, 

And shone on the earth below. 
Saw loving glances in hazel eyes, 
And a crimson cheek's warm glow : 
Then sweetest kisses fell — 
I'm sure no one was by — 
And we were watching the fair moonlight, 
Kate and I. 



^8 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Now as I sit in my cheerful room, 

All happily pass the hours : 
For love weaves a garland for every day 
Of the sweetest and fairest flowers. 
I journey not alone, 
Another form is nigh : 
And till death we travel cheerily on, 
Kate and I. 



LEAFLE TS. 



LEAFLETS. 



59 



Out in the forest lonely 

The leaflets are dropping down, 
Fluttering slowly earthward, 

Golden, and crimson, and brown. 

Fanned by the soft spring zephyrs. 
Kissed by the summer sun, 

Chilled by the winds of autumn, 
Their bright brief life is done. 

My darlings ! my lost treasures ! 

In spring-time, oh ! how fair. 
To music of the south wind 

Ye danced in balmy air. 

And my tired eye grew brighter. 
My weary soul grew strong, 

While like the harp's low music 
Murmured your gentle song. 



6o THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS, 

Now must we part forever ? 

Oh, mountains, grand and tall, 
Your gorgeous robes of autumn 

Seem like a funeral pall. 

The moaning, sighing north wind, 
Sweeping through rocky glen, 

Beats with my heart's sad measure 
My darling's requiem. 

Glorious in dying splendor. 
Oh, changing leaflets dear, 

My heart sighs for your beauty 
In hours of winter drear. 

And oft, when storm-clouds gather 

I lift my heart in prayer, 
That the days of my life's autumn 

May be, like yours, most fair. 



LOVE'S TEACHING. 6 1 



LOVE'S TEACHING. 

Teach me a new name, darling, 

One that is tender and true, 
Full of the heart's own music, 

And worthy even of you. 

It must be bright as the sunshine, 

Clear as the summer sky. 
And fragrant as rarest perfume 

The balmy breeze wafts by. 

It must be like your own true nature, 

Noble, and grand, and free ; 
With a power like the storm-king's voices. 

And a murmur of the sea. 

It must have a sound of music, 
The breath of a tearful prayer, 

As I call my heart to worship 
Its idol enthroned there. 



62 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

It must be soft and gentle, 
Like the falling of the snow ; 

But ever warm and ruddy, 

Like the crimson fire-light's glow. 

So if, in all your learning, 
One such a name you know, 

Teach me to know it, darling, 
That I may call you so. 

But if in earthly naming 

There be none so deep and high, 

I'll ask the listening angels 
To whisper it from the sky. 



FAITHFUL HEART! 



63 



O FAITHFUL HEART ! 

What tho' the winter snow lies deep, 
And all the fairest blossoms sleep ? 
The spring will come with sun and rain, 
And all the earth will smile again. 

O faithful heart ! 

Love on, trust on. 

What tho' the clouds so darkly frown, 
And pitiless the rain comes down ? 
They soon will part, and heaven's own blue 
Soft and serene will shine on you. 

O faithful heart ! 

Love on, trust on. 

What tho' in dreams you live again 
Long weary hours of grief and pain } 



64 



THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Lo, see ! the morning breaks, and joy 
Will soon each hateful dream destroy. 

O faithful heart ! 

Love on, trust on. 

What tho' you long for tender tone, 
And loving glances all your own } 
That longing rises through the air, 
And answer comes to each sweet prayer. 

O faithful heart ! 

Love on, trust on. 

For, far beyond the glowing skies, 
The holy land of promise lies ; 
And each true heart will find the bliss. 
The rapture that's denied in this. 

O faithful heart ! 

Love on, trust on. 



ETCHINGS. 65 



ETCHINGS. 

Apple-blossoms sweet and fair, 
Once I wore them in my hair : 
Mem'ry bells ring silently, 
When I think who placed them there. 

Lilies of the valley, say, 
Can I e'er forget the day 
When he whispered, soft and low, 
** Darling, you are pure as they " ? 

Star forget-me-nots so blue. 
Would I had been ever true ! 
"You have stolen," once he said, 
" For your eyes their heavenly hue." 

Cherries ripe and rosy red, 
*' They are like your lips," he said ; 
But the ripened cherries fell. 
And the summer days are dead. 
5 



ee THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Over all the winter snows 

Silently and softly fell, 
Clothing in a mantle white 

Every bud and lily bell. 

So the summer of my heart 

Yields to winter's frost and snow ; 

But upon the canvas oft 

Memory's pictures come and go ; 

And I fancy we shall find, 

When we reach some happier sphere, 
Angel hands have hung them there. 

Where the light is pure and clear. 



LEON A. 67 



LEONA. 

Child of the darksome forest, 

Where art thou fled ? 
The wreath I wove for thy glorious brow 

Is faded — dead. 
The moon comes out from the fleecy cloud, 

And shines on the silver sea ; 
Leona, my pride, my spirit bride, 

Come back to me. 

Maiden with jetty tresses. 

And soft brown eyes, 
Hast thou left me here to pine alone, 

And sought the skies ? 
The violet blooms in the shady dell, 

And the daisy sleeps on the lea ; 
Leona, my pride, my spirit bride, 

Come back to me. 



68 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

My lonely heart is crying 

In vain for thee : 
Only the wind's low sighing 

Answereth me. 
The clouds are parting — thy form I view- 
Come hither, mine own, to me : 
Leona, my pride, my spirit bride, 

I come to thee. 



A RETROSPECT. 



69 



A RETROSPECT. 

Oh eyes that weep such bitter tears ! 
Once, long ago, in happier years, 

I deemed thy brightness ne'er could fade ; 
I fondly thought each coming day 
Would find thee ever bright and gay, 

Nor sorrow e'er thy glances shade. 

Oh fingers, soft, and white, and fair ! 
I little thought that grief and care 

Would cause thee so to intertwine ; 
Or cling so closely to my breast, 
To still within this wild unrest, 

This longing, aching soul of mine. 

Oh heart that loved so fond and true ! 
I dreamed, as many others do, 
Thy joyous life was wisely given ; 



70 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Those careless hours of sunny youth, 
When first I pledged thy fondest truth, 
Seemed like a foretaste here of Heaven. 

Too soon came sorrow, care, and pain, 
My heart will ne'er be young again, 

Nor feel the joy it used to know ; 
Only beyond the far-off skies 
I'll meet, with smiles of sweet surprise, 

Such bliss as once was mine below. 



AfV KING. 



MY KING, 



71 



My monarch wears no jeweled crown, 
No rubies red, nor diamonds rare ; 

Only upon his royal brow 

Some curling waves of chestnut hair. 

No ermined robes of rank and state 
My monarch's manly form adorn ; 

Only the quiet ease and grace 
Of noblemen by nature born. 

Within the hand that presses mine 
Is held no badge of high behest, 

His only sceptre is his smile, 
Type of the law I love the best. 

He sits upon no dazzling height, 
No courtiers around him bend ; 

His throne is in my faithful heart — 
My loving thoughts his titled friend. 



72 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS 

No Stern decree of monarch's power 
To traitor subject e'er is given, 

Only the glance of soul-lit eyes, 

Within whose depths I find my heaven. 

Oh, noble monarch ! Better far 
To know one heart will loyal be. 

Than reign unloved, mistrusted, feared, 
'Mid hollow pomp and revelry. 

Oh, happy heart that owns thy sway. 
What joyous praise my lips shall sing ! 

While every blissful moment shows 
How grandly noble is my king. 



MV QUEEN. ^2, 



MY QUEEN. 

I WORSHIP daily at a shrine, 

'Tis not in old cathedrals grand, 

Nor where tall minster towers arise, 
Or humbler sacred fanes may stand. 

No crucifix is there upreared ; 

No beads with Aves set between ; 
My altar is my hearthstone bright — 

I pay my homage to its queen. 

Fairer is she than sylph or fay, 
Tender as love itself to me, 

When, at each close of busy day, 
She sofdy sits upon my knee. 

Her hair as chestnut's coat is brown, 
Waving in shades of burnished gold ; 

And oh ! the light that, soft and fair, 
Lies hidden in each shining fold. 



74 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Her brow is pure as evening's sky, 
And calm as lakelet's gentle breast, 

When on its bosom tranquilly 
The water-lilies sink to rest. 

Her eyes — oh, sweetest, tenderest eyes ! 

My soul into their depths can fall. 
Can sink and lose itself, and then 

Still find itself best loved of all. 

To those dear orbs of azure hue 

Love's holiest missions here are given : 

Within their changeful, melting blue 
I catch my first rare glimpse of Heaven. 

The sea-shell's rarest, faintest pink 

Plays o'er her cheek so smoothly round ; 

Her lips are ripe with kisses sweet ; 
Her voice is music's thrilling sound. 

Her strong true heart beats all for me ; 

The same when joy's bright numbers roll, 
Or sorrow's waves flow drearily, 

Or dash in madness o'er the soul. 



MV QUEEN. yi^ 

Oh, kingdom blest ! Oh, beauteous queen ! 

Could I thy praises fitly sing, 
My words should bud on time's cold shore, 

But blossom in eternal spring. 



^6 7HANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS 



A RAINY NIGHT. 

Dark is the night and drear ! 

The heavy drops of rain 
Fall fast and faster still 

Upon my window pane. 

No moon, no stars, to-night — 
I drop my curtain down ; 

The very lamp's dim light 
Seems almost like a frown. 

Alone ! how fast they come. 
Thoughts of the days gone by, 

Trooping through memory's halls, 
A silent company. 

Oh, loves of long ago, 

Stand back ! I cannot bear 

To see ye, pale and still, 
Standing before me there. 



A RAINY NIGHT. 

What tho' 'twas childish love ? 

Has love of riper years 
Been half so strong and true, 

So free from doubts and fears ? 

O lips that I have kissed ! 

'Tis well ye too are come 
To mock me with your smile : 

Before you I am dumb. 

Strong hands that I have clasped, 
I feel your pressure now : 

Rest ye forgivingly 
Upon my saddened brow. 

Reproach me not, ye eyes 
Whose depths I never knew : 

Your light was once my heaven — 
Would I had been as true. 

Hark ! how the rain comes down ! 

The wind is moaning wild, 
A requiem for the days 

Strong, true and undefiled. 



77 



yS THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Tears ? Well, I'll let them fall- 
Perhaps they'll leave more bright 

The eyes whose depths are stirred 
This rainy, dreary night. 



MV HEAVEN. 



MY HEAVEN. 



79 



Where is my heaven ? Not in the realms of ether, 
Where fleecy clouds lie soft against the blue, 

And where at even-tide the golden glory 

From angel wings comes softly shining through. 

Not in the joyous ring of baby laughter, 
Or flowing ringlets to the breezes cast : 

Not in the memories, sorrowful and tender, 
That fill the soul from out the shadowy past. 

Not in the sheen of rarest gems that glitter 
On beauty's brow, or tremble on the sight 

In caverns deep, like the pale stars that twinkle 
Serene and still upon the brow of night. 

Not in the far-off" land of the hereafter. 

Where loved ones wait us who have gone before 

Nor where the echoes of the grand Te Deum 
Sound down the arches from th' eternal shore. 



8o THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Not in all richest gifts of earthly naming, 
Nor any thought of bliss beyond the skies ; 

Not in glad hopes their full fruition claiming. 
My only heaven is in my darling's eyes. 



DREAMING. 



DREAMING. 

Oh, the days of long ago, 
When my heart beat to the glow 

Of hopes that greet us only in our youth's bright day ; 
When every morn was bright, 
And the stars shone every night, 

And every month was joyous as the laughing Miiy. 

Oh, the jewels by the brook. 
In the quiet, shady nook. 
How I loved the pleasant corner where my ear-drops 
grew. 

Never pearls that bound my hair 
Seemed to me one half so fair 
As the graceful golden blossoms that my childhood 
knew. 

Oh, the elm-tree branches wide. 
Drooping o'er the sparkling tide, 
6 



82 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Casting shadows on its surface when the sun was 
high : 

Oft I lay beneath their shade, 
Watching how the shadows played, 
While the fleecy clouds were sailing 'cross the azure 
sky. 

Oh, the tender words of love 
Whispered in the silent grove. 
When the moon was beaming brightly on the earth 
below : 

How they echo in the heart. 
Till the burning tear-drops start, 
While memory brings the accents I no more may 
know. 

Clouds are oft around my path, 

But one joy my bosom hath, 
And many times has sadness fled before the glow 

Of the peace that fills my heart. 

When I sit and muse apart, 
On the happy, happy days of the long ago. 



TO BELLA. 83 



TO BELLA. 

Would you know what you are like ? 

When the wine begins to flow, 
When the bubbles sparkling break, 

And we cry, *' Vive la Cliquot ! " 

Just the first warm rosy glow — 
'Tis the life of the champagne : 

Gone, like youth's first, freshest bloom, 
It can never come again. 

In the soft, still summer morn. 
Ere the sun begins to shine, 

There's a tint in all the east. 
Tender, roseate, divine ; 

Just a hint of brighter hue — 
Light that ushers in the day : 

On the cool, fresh morning air. 
Quick it vanishes away. 



84 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Deep within the rose's heart, 
Hidden close by petals fair, 

There's a secret spot, secure, 
Sacred to its perfume rare. 

Nature's breath, so fragrant, pure. 

Mystery unknown to art ; 
Only nature's lovers know 

Secrets of a rose's heart. 

There's a single throbbing tone, 
Full of passion, full of pain, 

Tremulous with loving joy, 
Ever sounds a low refrain. 

Through the mystic melody, 

In each chord so full and strong, 

Speaking to the inmost heart — 
'Tis the voice of glorious song. 

Living glow, and roseate blush. 
Perfume rare, and music's soul. 

Can but feebly shadow forth 

All your wondrous sweet control. 



TO BELLA. 

These, in all their richness rare, 
All their perfectness you are ; 

But to me, who love you well, 
Something dearer, sweeter far. 



85 



86 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE KING-FISHER. 

Translated from the French of Andre Theuriet. 

The king-fisher shoots like an arrow of blue : 

His flight spring perfumes follow 
To his nest, which gleams in the cool fresh morn, 

Half hid in a leafy hollow. 

In the limpid lake he dips his wing, 

Still wet with dew-drops sparkling, 
Where from early morn he has sought his prey, 

In reedy hollows darkling. 

His plumage is charged with the fragrant breath 

Of the newly-mown sweet clover : 
While it catches the hue of the morning's sky, 

With a soft gray clouded over. 

As he nears his nest in the old tree root. 

His free flight untiring keeping, 
His piercing cry makes the echoes start, 

And wakens the birdlings sleeping. 



THE KING-FISHER. 8/ 

Naught they have learned of that great wide world 

Surrounding their leafy dwelling ; 
But their tiny breasts, half nude as yet, 

With a sudden hope are swelling. 

They venture forth upon trembling wing. 

Where reeds and rushes quiver ; 
And where like flashes of spotted light 

The fish dan down the river. 

Some instinct within them strangely stirs, 

Prompting the bonds to sever : 
A plunge — a cry — and they are lost 

To the reedy nest forever. 



88 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 



GRANTED. 

'^ What do you mean by love ? " she asked. 

" I know it must be something grand ; 
If you'll explain a little bit, 

I'll try so hard to understand." 

O ruby lips ! O satin cheek ! 

Blue eyes of wonder open wide ; 
So near your gaze who could explain ? 

"Well, why don't you begin ? " she cried. 

' ' True love, " I answered, " is a rose 
That blooms when other flowers are dead ; 

And scatters fragrance far and wide." 
"But roses have big thorns," she said. 

"True love is like an inward fire. 
That burns and burns by night and day. " 

" What ! ne'er goes out at all ? " cried she. 
" 'T would scorch one's very breath away." 



89 



GRANTED, 

" True love is an impetuous stream 

That on and on forever flows ; " 
"Oh, dear ! " she pouted, " that's too cold ; 

I shiver to my very toes." 

''True love is like a chain, that binds 
So close, for life and death as well : " 

"Love like a clanking chain? " cried she. 
'"Tis only fit for prison cell." 

I closely clasped her hand in mine, 

Her wee, white, timid, fluttering hand : 

" Now listen — look into my eyes, 
And try to rightly understand. 

"True love is like an earnest prayer, 

That heartfelt rises to the skies ; 
That's hardly breathed by trembling lips, 

And overflows in tearful eyes." 

She shyly raised her eyes to mine. 

Then swiftly bowed her golden head : 

Her sweet lips trembled with their joy — 

" Why, one should grant a prayer," she said. 



^O THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 



TO MADAME MARIE ROSE. 

Oh, the roses ! The roses ! 

A world of rare perfume, 
A world of blending color, 

A world of beauteous bloom. 
We scarce can tell the fairest, 

So many fair we see ; 
But there is one — the rarest, 

We call it Rose Marie. 

Gentle, and sweet, and loving. 

As the Wild Rose wet with dew 
That blossoms in green country lanes, 

The rose our childhood knew ; 
Or the Cinnamon Rose that budded 

Beside the garden gate, 
On which we leaned in the twilight, 

A coming step t' await. 



TO MADAME MARIE ROSE. 

Fair as the waxen petals, 

The spotless buds half blown, 
That ever in the raven hair 

Of matchless beauty shone : 
With a tender, varying color 

That to the cheek will start, 
Like the delicate shades that linger 

In the Tea Rose's deepest heart. 

A grand and glorious meaning 

In the dark eyes' slumbrous fold, 
Deep, full, intense, a hidden fire, 

Like the heart of the Cloth of Gold 
The charming, graceful presence 

Disguise can ne'er conceal : 
A perfect blooming, like the flower 

Of the peerless Marshal Neil. 

But this queen of my rose garden, 
This blossom of my choice. 

Unlike all other roses. 

Speaks in a wondrous voice ; 



91 



92 



THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

A tone that touches and echoes 

My heart-strings all along, 
Till they stop beating, to listen — 

'Tis the voice of glorious song. 

Sometimes a love-song tender, 

To be sung in the twilight dim — 
Sometimes a prayer just whispered, 

Or a grand cathedral hymn ; 
Sometimes a gay French chanson, 

Or a sparkHng barcarole, 
Sometimes a strain of grand despair, 

To shake the very soul. 

It matters not — the music 

Is ever full and free, 
And the voice that charms the waiting world 

Sings tenderly to me. 
Fair queen among the roses, 

Fairest of all we see, 
Long may she reign, the lovely, 

The peerless Rose Marie. 



ASHES. 



93 



ASHES. 

Soft and still, cold and gray, 

A pile of ashes before me lies ; 
I, motionless, wonder if they will stir 

When the first faint breath of morn shall rise. 

All night long I have watched them fall, 

Softly and silently, one by one, 
A gray cold mass 'neath the blackening grate. 

They have all fallen — my watch is done. 

Some hours ago, when I lit the fire 

(Is it hours or years I have passed since then ?) 
My heart beat high with a strong desire, 

A hope, a love, like other men. 

The cheery flame leaped quick and high, 
As if it waited the touch of my hand. 

And flashed a reply to my inmost thoughts, 
I almost think it did understand. 



Q4 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

What pictures I saw in the glowing coals ! 

What a truthful artist bright thoughts can be ! 
And mine were as bright as the dancing flame, 

As they painted me pictures fair to see. 

What was it that dimmed the pictures' glow ? 

A letter — a marvel of delicate art : 
" We have both been quite mistaken, and so 

You must see it is better that we should part." 

'Twas a dainty sheet like a rose-leaf pale. 
Its breath of perfume filled all the air ; 

Since I crushed it in my burning hand, 
There's a scent of rose leaves everywhere. 

'' Give it to me," the fierce flame cried. 

I smoothed it out, and I kissed it thrice, 
Then laid it upon the glowing coals — 

It was burned to ashes in a trice. 

O God ! how it writhed in the flame's hot grasp ! 

I strove with my might its mad course to stay ; 
Then I knew by the coldness I felt within, 

It was my heart that had burned away. 



95 



ASHES. 

There is no flower when the root is dead — 
What need of hope when the heart is gone ? 

So I said farewell to my hopes so bright, 
And burned them to ashes one by one. 



They were sweet as the first warm breath of June, 
And fair as the blossom on Alpine snow ; 

My hand was ice, and my lips were dumb, 
As I yielded them up to the crimson glow. 

INIy fair false love, could you see them now, 
The heart and the hope that were thine before, 

Would you care, I wonder, that naught remains 
But ashes, piled on the marble floor ? 

The night is over — the day dawns fair — 
Below, the street echoes with busy tread ; 

I open my door, and leave behind 
Only a pile of ashes — dead. 



^6 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE ROBIN RED-BREAST. 

Translated from the French of Andre Theuriet. 

I HAVE had a dream, my darling : 

Half hid in a leafy wood, 
On the border of a meadow, 

A low-roofed cottage stood : 
In a tall tree, white with blossoms, 

A robin, with scarlet breast, 
Twitters and sings in gladness, 

As he builds his mossy nest. 

The red-breast, tender and loving, 

Whose breath of joyous song, 
In eager, bounding measure 

Like his life-blood flows along, 
Till it bursts, a stream of music, 

From his throat, as deeply red 
As the scarlet berries that glisten 

'Mong the leaves by the river bed. 



THE ROBIN RED-BREAST. 

His coming shall bring us gladness, 

And his nest in the beechen tree 
A charm, a guerdon of fortune, 

An amulet shall be. 
To our window, by tendrils shaded. 

When the day is young and fair. 
His happy roulade of greeting 

Shall float on the morning air. 

And when on amethyst pinions 

The night sinks slowly down, 
And noiseless spreads o'er the drowsy world 

A mantle of golden brown ; 
When your fair young head, my darling. 

In my arms shall cradled rest, 
A softly twittered lullaby 

Will sound from the leafy nest. 

When the spring time paints the hill-sides. 
And the brooklets wake and sing ; 

When lilies gem the meadows, 
And there's beauty in everything ; 
7 



97 



THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

When the sober mulberry bushes, 
Stand dressed in their robes of gray, 

Still the happy red-breast carols, 
As he steals their fruit away. 

When the frost with sparkling fingers 

Makes pictures on the panes ; 
When the snow lies, drifted whiteness. 

Along the distant lanes ; 
To a place on the hearth between us, 

To the glow of our happy home, 
To our warm good cheer and affection. 

We'll bid our birdling come. 

And our red-breast, ere he leave us, 

Leaves behind the frost and snow. 
Will sing, as he stands in the shadow 

Of our fire-light's crimson glow : 
"Through the burning heat of summer, 

Through the winter's cold and snow, 
True love blooms on unfading." 

My darling, shall it be so t 



GHOSTS. 



GHOSTS. 



99 



You don't believe in ghosts, you say ? 

Hm. Well, I must confess, I do ; 
If you had seen one face to face, 

Perhaps you might believe it too. 

'Twas thus — before my glass one night 
I passed, when sudden gleaming there, 

'Mong the smooth braids, I saw a light 
Upon the shade — my first gray hair. 

I almost laughed aloud in scorn ; 

I would not have it so, in truth ; 
Turning, I saw beside me stand 

The ghost of my departed youth. 

My heart throbbed mightily — not fear 
The cause^ — the rather silent pain ; 

The present was a dream, and quick 
The long gone days came back again. 



100 THANKSGIVING, AND OTHER POEMS. 

The days when eyes were brightly blue, 
And cheeks as red as rose in May ; 

Before the hot tears came that burned 
The fair, fresh, youthful tints away. 

When the young heart was fresh and warm, 
And full of faith in God and men ; 

How many bitter, bitter hours 

Have changed the faith to doubt since then. 

When each new day was new delight, 

And every untried path a way 
Through flowery fields and meadows bright ; 

When hope grew stronger every day, 

And love was warm, and always true ; 

No fear it might grow cold or fail ; 
For over all the glowing world 

Lay youth's bright morning's mystic veil. 

The phantom stood with sad, sweet eyes. 
Seeming my every thought to know ; 

While memory brought and pictured fair 
Each glad detail of long ago. 



GHOSTS. 10 1 

As, fading soft within the blue, 

Melt the last tints of dying day ; 
E'en as I gazed in mute surprise. 

The still, sweet presence died away. 

I stretched my arms to hold it fast. 

"Come back," I cried. " Oh I say not so, 
That youth is thus forever fled. 

Come back, I cannot let you go.'' 

No answer but the sighing wind : 

Alone, I turned : " O spirit fair, 
Some token leave" — again I caught 

A glimpse of this, my first gray hair. 

No, let it lie, one silver thread 

Among the countless darker host ; 
'Tis proof that I am growing old, 

And once, at least, have seen a ghost. 



958 9 • 



